


Humanity and its Inconveniences

by the_pen_is_mightier



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley at their peak idiocy, Canon deviant, Crowley owns a flower shop in this one, Humor, M/M, Multiple chapters, alternating Crowley and Aziraphale POV, human AU sort of, it's complicated - Freeform, lack of understanding about basic human things, playing fast and loose with biblical canon, there's still demons and angels but Aziraphale and Crowley are humans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-17 21:50:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20628098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_pen_is_mightier/pseuds/the_pen_is_mightier
Summary: The demon Crawly has recently renounced Hell and made a life for himself as a human flower shop owner. He’s never had any interactions with humans beyond tempting or torturing them, but he’s sure he can make this work. How hard can it be? All he needs is some practice, and maybe a little human help.The human Ezra Fell, meanwhile, is struggling to support himself with a bookshop he’s recently taken over running in Soho, despite the fact that he hates selling books. His family is distant, he feels like a failure, and he doesn’t have many people to turn to. But when a mysterious Anthony J. Crowley slithers into his shop one afternoon, looking for books on plant care, his world is about to turn topsy-turvy.Tags to be added. Rating not subject to change.





	Humanity and its Inconveniences

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a more serial, episodic fic, and I don’t have everything about it planned out (though I have planned how it ends.) So if you’d like to drop suggestions about things you want to see in the comments, I’ll welcome that! I can’t promise I’ll do everything you suggest, but I’ll definitely take it all into consideration. This is going to be an adventure for all of us. Hope you enjoy!

Crowley was still adjusting to life in a human body. 

Strictly speaking, he’d lived in a human body for around six thousand years, excepting a few jaunts as a giant snake, but that had been very different. He’d only been human-shaped, really - he could change his appearance at will, could leave the Earth if the fancy struck him, and he could perform miracles. As of 8:32 this morning that had all stopped being the case. 

He was rudely reminded of this yet again when he approached the doors of a bookshop, snapped to open them, and collided face-first with the window. 

_“Argh!”_

Crowley staggered backward, nearly knocking over a passerby on the sidewalk, righting himself only just in time and clutching his head where an angry lump now throbbed. Peering through his fingers, he glared at the door - it looked smugly back at him, echoing Beelzebub’s words from earlier that day in his head. _You think you’re really slick, Crawly, don’t you? You won’t last a day as a human._

Door didn’t know what it was talking about. Crowley scowled and straightened, approaching it again and pulling it open. The ring of the bell when he entered made him wince; his ears were still ringing. 

Inside was a kind of meticulously organized chaos. Crowley paused in the doorway to take it all in: the shop was cluttered with shelves and bits of furniture, different-sized rugs, lamps, and sculptures Crowley thought seemed to belong to another era. In fact, the whole shop was like an amalgamation of centuries, an impression reinforced when Crowley began to amble through the displays and notice how many of the books seemed to be ancient first-editions. Old, fraying at the edges, but in excellent condition. Crowley pulled a copy of _Anderson’s Fairy Tales_ experimentally off a shelf and found that, though the cover was faded, it was completely free of dust. A. Z. Fell must be some sort of collector. 

“Excuse me?”

The voice was polite, but somewhat stiff. Crowley looked up to see, at the end of the aisle, a man with white-blonde hair wearing a delightfully old-fashioned waistcoat and bowtie. Crowley replaced the book on its shelf, smirking. “Hi there. Mr. A. Z. Fell, is it?” 

“His great-grandson. Ezra Fell.”

“Pleasure.” Crowley sauntered over and held out his hand. “Anthony J. Crowley, at your service.” 

Ezra’s eyes traveled over Crowley as they shook. Crowley could practically see the impression forming in his head; he’d been around plenty of humans, plenty of old British snobs who didn’t like the way he dressed, back in his demon days. That had been rather the point, hadn’t it, fomenting discontent among the populous? And this was exactly the type of person he’d most put off. 

“I’m looking for books on plant care,” he said. 

Ezra smiled slightly. “This way.” 

Crowley continued to stare around as Ezra led him toward a shelf near the back. An old record player sat nestled in a corner, and in another a rotary dial phone; Crowley had the feeling they were the newest things in the shop. He ran a finger over the spines of the books he passed as they walked. Still not a speck of dust on any of them.

“Please don’t do that,” said Ezra, a little sharp.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. Oh, that bad, was he? He made a show of dragging his hand across the rest of the books in the row. 

And Ezra’s face, which had been carefully controlled up to that point, seemed to crumble. “Oh…” 

Crowley blinked. He’d been expecting some angry reprimand - he had, he realized suddenly, been looking forward to it. Starting a bit of mayhem in this fussy bookseller’s shop. He hadn’t expected the man to look _hurt_. The way his mouth drooped sent a surprising wave of guilt through Crowley as he lowered his hand. And on its heels, a burst of uneasiness. 

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Old habits.” 

_You won’t last a day as a human._

“What was that?” said Ezra. 

“Old habits.” Crowley rolled his shoulders and inhaled slowly - he still wasn’t quite used to the whole needing-to-breathe thing. “Up until about five hours ago I was a demon.” 

Ezra smiled that same small, courteous smile. “Is that right?” 

“Yeah. Got my affairs in order this morning, wrapped up my last few temptations, and told Lord Beelzebub I was quitting. Now here I am with, I don’t know, about fifty more years and no miracles. And a heart that beats and lungs that need air and all that.” 

“Must be quite a bother.” Ezra’s hand twitched, moving momentarily toward his own chest, as though to feel his own heartbeat. 

“It is. Honestly, I feel a little trapped.” Crowley fidgeted, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket. “No shapeshifting, no teleportation, not even the promise of a new corporation if I muck this one up. It’s weird.”

“I… suppose so.” 

Crowley looked at Ezra again. He wasn’t entirely sure if Ezra believed what he was telling him; he hadn’t laughed at the word ‘demon,’ but most humans fainted or screamed when presented with Crowley’s true demonic form. Ezra looked merely politely interested. Maybe he figured Crowley was crazy; some humans took that approach - and, it occurred to Crowley now, he would never again have a way to prove them wrong. Aside from knowledge no mortal ought to possess he had nothing to show for six thousand years as a blight on humanity. But at least Ezra hadn’t thrown him out of the shop. 

“Right then,” said Crowley. “The books?” 

Ezra stepped backward to indicate the shelf he’d been standing next to. “There you are. Gardening and plant care.” His smile wobbled slightly. “Do be careful with them, won’t you?” 

What was this human doing running a bookshop? Clearly he didn’t want any of these books sold. But Crowley didn’t question; he still felt bad about touching the books earlier. He’d done it on instinct, demonic instinct, but it was just the kind of thing he’d left Hell to get away from. It had been cruel. And Crowley wasn’t bound to cruelty anymore, he was free. Lord Beelzebub be damned. 

Oh, wait. 

“Yeah,” he said. “No problem.” 

________________

In the end he bought just one book, a large one with plenty of pictures - Crowley had never really warmed to reading big blocks of text - and left the shop just as the sun was beginning to slant through the taller buildings of London. When he made it back to his flat, which sat above the flower shop he’d titled _The Garden of Eden_, it was still hours before dark. 

What would he be doing right now, if he were still a demon? Probably getting ready for whatever bland curse or temptation he’d been asked to carry out that night. Maybe thinking up his own evil deeds, bringing down mobile phone networks or sabotaging road construction. Nothing particularly fun, but, he reflected, it had been something to do. Now when he entered his flat and stared around at the sparse furniture, the wide windows and the unadorned floors, he realized there was nothing on for the rest of the day at all.

He looked around. He supposed this would be his last empty afternoon for a while. He’d be busy with the shop in the coming days, selling, keeping the books, tending to the plants with water and sunlight now he couldn’t just threaten them. Humans had all sorts of activities to fill their time. 

Right now, though… nothing. 

Crowley crossed to his armchair and flung himself into it, opening the plant care book again. Fine, then. A chance to finish this. He buried his nose in a section on succulents, running his fingers over the edges of the pages. 

But the minutes seemed to tick by painfully slowly. Crowley had read more than he’d ever done in one sitting before when he finally set the book down and turned his head to gaze out the window. Still light out. How could it not be dark yet? He’d never felt restless like this, as a demon. He’d slept through an entire century once. He knew humans couldn’t do that, but why was it so hard to wait down the sun? 

He stood abruptly and began to pace. An inexplicable sense of dissatisfaction pervaded him at the thought of not doing anything else today, of simply going to bed. He couldn’t possibly be missing those stupid tempting missions, and yet…

_You won’t last a day_, Beelzebub had said. 

Crowley shook his head. What did humans do when they were bored? He’d go see a movie. He had a nice stockpile of money, still, which would keep him paying rent and the water bill until his shop took off. He could dip into that for a night out. 

________________

Crowley had never actually had to wait in line for tickets before, and he found himself squirming with impatience. The movie he eventually got seated in turned out to be some rubbish romantic comedy that he tried vainly to miracle into something with more blood and brains. No, he had to sit through every stupid lovey-dovey scene, and desperately pretend he wasn’t sniffling at the final one. 

He left the cinema and it was finally dark, but he felt just as restless as before. 

Maybe he’d go out drinking. Find a small, inconspicuous bar and get so drunk he wouldn’t remember anything in the morning. That had always served to distract him before - but somehow now it seemed unappealing, almost nauseating. Doubly so when he realized he wouldn’t be able to miracle away the hangover in the morning. 

No, he’d just drive home, torturously slowly. No imagining his way around traffic.

“The movie was lovely, wasn’t it?” asked a woman who’d fallen in beside him as they moved toward the doors. “I nearly cried by the end.” 

Crowley, whose eyes had quite dried by now, turned to scowl at her. Suddenly he was seized by the overwhelming desire to bare fangs and hiss and send her screaming away in terror - but he didn’t have fangs anymore, and would only sound stupid if he hissed. Still, the anger, swift and shocking and nearly explosive, coursed through him.

“No, it was utter rubbish,” he snapped. “You’d have to be pretty pathetic to cry at that.” 

She looked taken aback. Crowley saw the sparkle of hurt in her eyes, the deflated hope of a conversation, and was thrown back to the hundreds of times his own temptations had prompted similar erratic outbursts in annoyed humans. 

This time, though, his guilt was smothered by the other sickly emotion he’d been grappling with all afternoon. He threw her another glare and muttered “pathetic” again before storming over to his Bentley, not looking back. 

He was halfway home before the guilt rose to the surface, making his eyes burn once more. 

What was wrong with him? Only human for a little over twelve hours and he was already breaking down? The moon rising over his head for the first time in six thousand years as a creature not accursed in the vision of the Almighty and he was jittery, irritated, confused? 

________________

Crowley didn’t sleep well that night. 

It was a double blow, the humiliating idea that he actually _needed_ to sleep now, that his body would demand that of him even if he didn’t feel like it, and the infuriating fact that he couldn’t simply do it on command. Instead he tossed and turned on silken sheets, thought fragments rioting in his head as he tried to get comfortable. It was around four in the morning when he finally gave up and left his room to start preparing for the day. 

Demons didn’t feel emotions like humans did. Or, at least, that was the traditionally accepted view of things. Demons didn’t feel love, or grief, or joy, or nostalgia - it wasn’t in their nature as beings of evil. Crowley had already proven a few of those ideas wrong, much to Hell’s chagrin, when he’d decided he couldn’t stomach another six thousand years of torturing humans, but who was he to say it wasn’t true in broad strokes? Clearly he was feeling something now that he’d never felt as a demon. 

He opened his shop at nine in the morning, leaving 8:32 to celebrate his first full day as a human. Screw Lord Beelzebub. But Crowley was in too bad of a mood to really enjoy the little victory.

What was it humans felt when they left home to go to college or get a job? Homesickness? Crowley pictured the cramped, filthy office spaces of Hell. No, he certainly didn’t miss that. And he didn’t miss flying around the world corrupting politicians, tempting married people and all that nonsense. Big waste of time. So what was he yearning for, exactly? 

Customers came and went, exclaiming over the beauty of his plants, asking Crowley what his secret was, to which he smiled and said he threatened the buggers with demonic retribution. The customers laughed and bought pots, bouquets, painted vases. Crowley found he couldn’t enjoy any of it. The hours dragged on. 

Finally at five he closed. He spent a while, longer than strictly necessary, watering and tending to the plants, before spending as long as he could stand reading the book - it was less time than yesterday, he thought - and found it was still light and he couldn’t even sit still anymore. 

Time to rethink the drinking idea. Crowley locked up and hopped into his Bentley, resolving to drive as fast as humanly possible and not stop until he saw a bar. 

________________

He found himself in Soho when he stopped. Had to find a parking space - he swore the entire time and nearly ran over several pedestrians - but finally he was headed toward the door of a bar with his pockets jangling full of future drinks. The bar promised dimness, which was good, because the slanting sun was hurting his eyes. A dull ache had started in his temples sometime around noon. 

But when he reached the door, he froze. A sudden, inexplicable chill had passed briefly through him. 

He stepped back onto the sidewalk and groaned.

“Crawly?” 

He turned his head, and a figure appeared, leaned against a wall, that hadn’t been there a moment before; lips curled in a leer, his hair and clothes still dripping with soil. 

“Hastur,” Crowley growled. 

“Well, well.” Hastur stood fully and looked Crowley over. “I was sent to tempt some sad human who came here to drink his evening away, forget about his troubles. That wouldn’t happen to be you?” 

“I don’t have any troubles,” he snapped. “I’m trouble-free. You’re the demon, you’re the one with all the troubles.” 

Hastur folded his arms and looked Crowley up and down. His eyes were full black, empty pits, pitiless. “So you’re just here to celebrate the grand opening of your - eh - what was it?”

“My flower shop.” Crowley spun around and started walking away; despite not having really wanted a drink, he was impossibly more enraged by the fact that now he couldn’t get one. “Yes, actually, the opening went incredibly well. People love my plants. They’re the best-kept in all London.”

Hastur fell into step beside him. He didn’t say anything, but Crowley could still feel the chill he emanated. 

“I’m making money,” Crowley continued, “and I’m no big spender, so I should have plenty to re-invest in the shop, buy new seeds, new varieties. And I’m reading up more on plant care. And - and I’m going to see movies in my free time. Saw one last night where a monster was ripping people in half. So I’m building quite a nice life for myself, thanks very much.” 

“And yet you’re unsatisfied,” said Hastur, smug.

Crowley stopped in his tracks, fury roaring through him once more, hotter, bitterer than ever. Before he knew what he was doing - before he had time to think about the fact that he was in broad daylight, and Hastur had probably miracled himself invisible to the humans around them, and he would likely look like a madman, he shoved Hastur hard against the side of a building, gripping him by the collar.

“I am _not_ unsatisfied,” he snarled. “I’m _fine_. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“You were never a good liar, Crawly.” Hastur smirked. “It’s one of the things that should have tipped us off to how pitiful a demon you were.”

Crowley drew back his fist, but when he swung for Hastur’s jaw the demon vanished - and his knuckles collided with solid brick. 

The pain was blinding. This time he staggered straight back into the street, a fact only revealed to him when a car honked loudly and swerved around him. Clutching his crumpled hand to his stomach, groaning, he stumbled out of the way of oncoming traffic and peered around through slitted eyes. Where was his car? Where had he parked? He could hardly remember where he was. Stars were bursting around the edges of his vision. He hadn’t hurt this badly since he’d fallen through the roof of a church three hundred years ago - the end result of a string of very poor decisions that had come close to discorporating him. 

Finally Crowley’s eyes focused enough to make out the doors of a shop on the corner. He needed quiet, he suddenly felt like the world of cars and pedestrians and sunlight was crushing him. He flung himself at the door, pulled it open, and practically collapsed onto a soft rug. 

“Sir, I’m afraid we’re closed.”

Crowley looked up from his position on his hands and knees. The voice was familiar. 

Ezra Fell was standing by a bookshelf, appearing to be wearing the exact same outfit he’d had on yesterday - same shirt, same vest, same bowtie. His eyes widened in recognition as he took in the sight of Crowley in front of him. “Ah - Anthony, was it?”

“Crowley.” He heard himself, as he said it; he heard how his voice was painfully small. 

“Well, Crowley, I regret to say -”

And Crowley burst into tears. 

He hadn’t meant to do it, really - and he was mostly very good at concealing his emotions, whatever Hastur wanted to say - but it had been a long day, the longest of his life. His hand was still smarting, his head still pounding, and the feeling he’d had since yesterday afternoon refused to release him no matter what he did. And it was a stupid thing to do, just leak salt water out of his eyes, but he found he couldn’t stop himself. 

“Oh, my, oh dear,” he heard Ezra saying above him. “Well… if you’d like you can sit in here and catch your breath…” 

In any other instance he would have waved off attempted help by a human, but Ezra’s hand was soft as he helped Crowley to his feet, led him over to an armchair to sink into. And Crowley was still crying. He buried his face in his hands when Ezra stepped back, feeling his cheeks redden with embarrassment even as the tears continued to flow. 

“Do you…” Ezra sounded hesitant. “Do you need anything? Some tissues, maybe? Or - ah - a blanket? 

The admission bled through Crowley’s fingers when he spoke. It trembled coming out. “I f-feel _empty_.” 

Ezra was silent, evidently unsure how to respond. Crowley let words bubble up from his throat, from his chest, from some place deep inside him that he hardly understood. Yes, why not share his inner turmoil with the bookseller? It wasn’t like he had any human friends. 

“I thought everything would be easy once I left Hell,” he whimpered. “I spent so long working up the courage to just get out of there. You’ve no idea. They could have just dunked me in holy water, I’m lucky they let me go at all. And now I’m here and everything’s wrong. I feel like there’s a _hole_ in me. Is this what being human feels like?” 

He was crying harder, tears leaking down onto his lap, his throat swelling. “Tell me this isn’t what being human feels like, Ezra, please. I’d almost rather be a demon…” 

_You won’t last a day. You won’t last a day. You won’t last a day._

There was a long pause, punctuated only by the muffled sound of Crowley’s sobs. He didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t know what to do. Everything else he might have felt had been sucked into the hollowness inside him. 

Then Crowley heard Ezra move. Heard him step toward Crowley, then kneel, taking his hands gently, bringing them down from his face to look him in the eyes. 

“Crowley,” he said, “how long have you been a human?” 

Crowley stared down at Ezra. His eyes were light blue, open and earnest. It really was remarkable how easily he seemed to accept that Crowley was telling the truth. “A - a day and a half now.” 

“And in that time, have you eaten any food?” 

He stilled. 

The question took several seconds to sink in, to process through his mind - to send him rolling back through his afternoon, his morning, his sleepless night, his restless yesterday evening. But the answer seemed to rise to his lips without input from the rest of his brain. 

“Oh…” he said slowly. “Oh, shit.” 

His afternoon had passed without a break for lunch. He’d prepared for the day without a thought for breakfast. He’d spent last night watching a movie, and eating dinner hadn’t even occurred to him. Crowley had eaten before, as a demon, a few times - just to see what all the fuss was about - but it had entirely slipped his mind that food was another of those things humans needed to survive. 

“I’ll take that as a no,” said Ezra, his mouth curling slightly with amusement. 

Crowley let out a choked noise of affirmation. The empty feeling inside him…

“Don’t move.” Ezra stood, his manner suddenly brisk. “I’ll be right back.”

Crowley still didn’t speak as Ezra moved away. Hungry, he was _hungry_. For Satan’s sake. Apparently something was wrong with him, after all - and that something was that he was a bloody _idiot_. 

Ezra returned with a glass of water and a hastily made sandwich a moment later. Crowley snatched at the sandwich so fast it almost fell apart in his hands, and inhaled it, not even registering what it was made of - he’d been very picky about the food he’d tried as a demon, but circumstance had a way of changing priorities, as it turned out. It tasted incredible for a moment before he swallowed it nearly whole. And, finally, the sharp edge of his stomach’s emptiness faded. 

“Goodness,” he heard Ezra say. “That was quick.” 

He took the water without a word and gulped it down, nearly all in a single massive swallow. It did something to dull his headache, wonderfully. When Crowley sat back at last in the armchair he was nearly panting. 

“Anything else?” 

“Uh.” Crowley was still hungry, but he didn’t know what other food to request. All concrete knowledge of practically everything had gone out the back door the minute the pleasure of eating kicked in. He didn’t think he’d ever enjoyed anything that much before - certainly not ambiguous sandwiches. 

“How about some tea?” Ezra suggested. “That always makes me feel better.”

Crowley would have made some snarky reply to that comment in any other situation, but in this one, it hardly occurred to him. “Yeah. Sure. Ah - thanks.” 

And Ezra was gone again, to put the kettle on. 

________________

Half an hour later Crowley was still curled up in the bookshop’s armchair, now with his hands wrapped around a half-finished mug of tea. He’d never had tea before, but Ezra had sweetened it with milk and honey, and it helped settle his stomach after its riotous last day and a half. It helped him feel, again, like he wasn’t about to itch out of his skin. 

“So,” said Ezra, who sat on a sofa beside him. “You’ll be headed out, will you, when the tea is done?” 

“Yeah.” The prospect of lingering longer was strangely appealing - it was warm here, and soft, and this silly old bookseller was surprisingly kind - but he had his plants to get back to, his shop to open tomorrow morning. He still had his life he was trying to build. “Thank you, though, for your help. It - it really means a lot.” 

“Well,” Ezra said with a small smile, “I don’t imagine you received much compassion from your former employers.” 

Crowley squinted at him. “Do you really believe I used to be a demon?” 

Ezra shrugged. “You seem an honest fellow.”

And Crowley smiled, the widest he had since renouncing Hell - the widest he had in centuries, actually, come to think of it. And for a moment he forgot about Ezra’s eccentric clothes and his off-putting demeanor. He _liked_ this human, he decided. He liked him quite a bit. 

“S’nice of you to say,” Crowley said. 

He was going to need help if he wanted to be a real part of this world. That much was obvious. From now on, he resolved, he’d try to stick more closely around Ezra Fell.


End file.
